


Tourists

by SansSoucis



Series: Kissing Knuckles [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Brexit, EU, European Union, FrUK, FrUK/Ukfr - Freeform, GerFra, Historical, Jealousy, Longing, Love/Hate, M/M, Romance, Smoking, Unhealthy FrUk dynamics, Unhealthy Relationships, contemporary, heavily implied GerFra, tragic, ukfr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 08:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: "Are you jealous?"They both know he is. France, cruel bastard that he is, just wants to watch him choke on the words."And would you feel better if I was, France?" England mutters darkly, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, watching as the softly smouldering tip glows a bright orange, then darkens back to copper again, if only to avoid France's expectant gaze. "Because that says a hell of a lot more about you than it does about me."Or, England decides to buy France a coffee and is gifted with heartbreak in return.





	Tourists

Evening arrives in raindrops splattering against the darkened windows of the conference hall. England, starving for some nicotine, wanders aimlessly about the polished floors, thinking bitterly of his pack of cigs left on the Eurostar and of how the halls he'd been roaming semi-comfortably since 1973 now felt more like of a closed off coffin.  
He finds France at the coffee machine, muttering obscenities and kicking at it as it once again refuses to accept his card.   
  
"Money troubles, hm? Has the Kraut perhaps given your allowance money to Greece instead?"   He says in mild amusement, watches France's shoulders flinch violently at the sound of his voice, golden curls brushing wildly against his cheeks as he whips his head around to glare at him through lapis slits of eyes.   
  
"Fuck off, England!”  He spits in annoyance, and England can't help but regard the purple blotches beneath his eyes and the wrinkles of his blouse with some satisfaction, glad to see that he is not the only one that this whole mess is taking a toll on.   
  
"Well, that _is_ exactly what I'm trying to do, isn't it?" England snorts, before reaching for his wallet. "Allow me."   
  
Before France can protest he's slipped the coins in the slot - brows furrowed in utmost concentration all the while because he never really got the hang of the Euro- and the machine grinds out a double espresso, just like the ones he has seen Germany loyally buy two ofwhile waiting behind him in desperate need of his own cuppa. He’d watched as the Kraut routinely took a napkin and put it on top of the second cup to ensure that the coffee, France’s coffee, stayed warm, and the awkward, almost guilty smile that he’d been gifted when caught staring had only added to England's itching desire to throw his own boiling hot Earl Grey into Germany's face.   
  
France cocks one immaculately groomed eyebrow at the gesture, but grits out a grudging _merci_ into the cup as he raises it to his lips.   
  
"See it as a parting gift, I suppose." England says, pointedly eyeing the packet of _Gauloises_ that sticks half out of France's front pocket -and they would’ve fit in entirely if the git didn't wear his dress pants so bloody _tight_ \- before relishing in the tightening of France's plump mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.   
  
"You're not gone yet, _Angleterre_." He snarls, nevertheless wiggling a cigarette out with practiced ease and offering it to England. "For someone so terribly intent on leaving you appear to be fumbling around an great lot. Word goes around the UK actually will be re-voting soon."   
  
"And you _do_ seem to be awfully happy about that, don’t you, frog? Don't tell me now that you'll actually be sad to see me go." England jeers, and France throws his empty - _empty!_ \- cup into the bin with way more force than necessary before replying.   
  
"I'm not _telling_ you anything. I'm just pointing you to the options you have left to try and scramble out of this mess." He hisses at him, and England can't halt a crude smile from slowly crawling up his face at the familiar sight of France fuming over him. He'd always been of the opinion that France looked the most beautiful when angered, which would actually explain a great lot about their behavioural patterns, now that he thought about it. However, he quickly decides that there’s no time to reminisce on this fact, for falling down a rabbit hole of _what if’s_ and _if_ _only’s_ concerning him and France was in no way a favourable development, not when there was still a deal to be bargained and an entire evening of having to face his piercing blue eyes at the negotiators’ table was still stretched out before him. He could sort that sodding mess out later, that is, if he could manage to peel France away from Germany’s side for more than two minutes.

He gets so severely annoyed at the thought that he pops the cigarette between his lips and moves to take his leave, but not before rummaging through his pockets in search of some more spare coins and pushing them into the slot.

"Can't really say I appreciate the gesture." He says with a shrug and a half-laugh as the machine pours France another cup, and as he turns to make his way onto the streets, after this brief interaction even more in need of a good smoke, France’s bark freezes him dead in his tracks.  
  
_"Angleterre!_ "  
  
When he looks back over his shoulder France is hoisting at a window, opening it in a silent invitation, and England lights his cigarette before resting his elbows on the window still, letting smoke swirl from his lips and into the ink-black sky, bicep pressed snugly against France’s in the limited space they share. England wrinkles his nose at the sterile, overly masculine cologne that he notices lingering on France’s collar.  
  
"Rooming with Germany then?" He attempts to ask semi-casually, but something in his voice must have caught on toxically to the name, because France immediately bares his teeth in a sneer, cheeks that had been paling to a milky white with exhaustion over the last few weeks suddenly flushing a light pink.  
  
"That’s not really any of your business now, is it?" He says with an undignified snort, before peering at England from the corner of his eye, mouth quirking up into a devilish smirk that makes England both want to plant his fist on it and lunge for it with his own lips. "Jealous?"   
  
They both know he is. But France, cruel bastard that he is, wants to watch England choke on the words.

"And would you feel better if I was, France?" England mutters darkly, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, watches as the softly smouldering tip glows a bright orange, then darkens back to copper again, if only to avoid France's expectant gaze. "Because that says a hell of a lot more about you than it does about me-"   
  
"-You know what,  _Arthur?"_ France says loudly, poisonously, before he's even finished talking. "Your face looks _almost_ tolerable when your mouth is shut. You should try it sometime. Surely it ought to make the negotiations a lot quicker."  
  
England decides to grant his wish, -and not in the least because he isn’t the one that France will be angrily pounding into the mattress later tonight if he truly manages to strike a nerve, much to his regret- instead enjoys the quiet of the moment, the simple intimacy that is to be found in the swift brush of France’s warm skin against his own every now and then. He notices goose bumps rising on France’s forearm,  - and why, _why_ did that idiot insist on rolling his sleeves up in the middle of bloody _October?!_ \- and briefly considers offering him his jacket, quickly pushes the sappy thought away.

The coffee machine loudly bursts to life behind them, and England throws a disturbed glance over his shoulder at the sudden sound, only to be greeted by Netherlands' knowing smirk as he raises his freshly poured cup in a lazy toast in what England supposes is amusement at the sight of two foolish old men hiding away from the rest of Europe to cosy up against the window frame. They watch as the tall Nation swaggers his way back to the conference room, shaking his spiked head at the two of them all the while.   
  
" _Angleterre._ " France speaks at last, and England watches his breath turn into tiny puffs of clouds in the cold evening air. "You are an idiot for leaving."   
  
France’s hand is so close to his, if he were to move an inch he’d be running his finger pads over his wrist. He faintly toys with the thought of reaching out, wonders if he’ll be met with a content sigh or a hard blow to the face. It’s still an everlasting game of guess when it comes to France.

"Is that your way of telling me you'll miss me when I’m gone?" He says teasingly, and in a whim of boldness raises the cigarette to France’s mouth, knuckles brushing momentarily against France’s bottom lip, but then France knocks his hand away with a dismissive huff, and England clutches at the window still in defeat.  
  
"Perhaps you ought to ask yourself why you want to hear that so badly.” France says pensively, plucking the cigarette from England's white-knuckled fingers to drag at it himself.

“You know why.” He confesses to the polished noses of his brogues and the tassels of France’s loafers, and when he casts a fleeting glance upwards France is eyeing him with a strange glint in his eyes.

“Do I now?’ He murmurs softly before leaning in ever so slightly, England being almost able to _taste_ the coffee on his breath and not minding it a great lot, and for one wild moment he thinks that France is going in to steal a quick kiss like Gaul used to do when Albion brought him handfuls of bluebells and honeysuckle to thread into his hair, long before Germany came crawling out the ashes of the Third Reich and sent his world shattering to pieces.

“ _Frankreich!_ I’ve been looking for y-“

 _And speaking of the devil.._ England watches France disregard his lustful expression just as quickly as he’d disregarded whatever is was what he and England had shared for over two millennia, before he looks back to at Germany, who appears to have been shocked into silence at the sight of the two of them, and as the last slivers of times long bygone dissolve into the air that is now thick with uncomfortable silence, England becomes blissfully aware of the fact that France’s lips linger about a thumb’s width from his own.

“..I have been looking for you.” Germany says again, more pointedly, before acknowledging England’s smug wave with a stiff nod. “England.”

France pulls away from England in one fluid motion – and he can’t help but grimace at the loss of warmth- raising the cigarette to his lips before regarding Germany with a smile that is just a tad too tight at the corners to be entirely relaxed. “And I’m not a child in need of supervision, _Allemagne_.”

And England regrets to say that he feels something like empathy as he can almost _see_ the turning cogs behind Germany’s harsh-featured visage speed up in a virginal panic at the sharp tone of France’s voice, desperately trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, and he can’t help but sympathise with his panicked search for a response, any response that won’t send France’s temper flaring like a match. And he’s going all wrong about it, England thinks angrily, naively trying to mend the very first few of cracks instead of pushing further and ripping it all apart. Experience has taught him that France thrives highest with his sanity unravelling at the edges. Picking up the pieces when he fell, that’s how England made him his. But Germany has obviously never been exposed to the full extent of France’s hideousness, and England prays to the heavens that he never will be, just so that that part of France can remain wholly _his._

“ _Nein_ , of course not.. _I-_ “ Germany roughly interrupts his musings with his uneasy stammering, idly pushing at a strand of his plasticky hair that had been drooping down his forehead before his nervously-shifting gaze lands on the coffee machine.

“Do you want-?” He says uncertainly, already reaching for his wallet, and England is slightly disgusted to note that France’s expression softens considerably at the lost look in his eyes.

“ _Non, merci. Angleterre_ has been kind enough to treat me to two cups already.” He says almost apologetically, as if he’s only now becoming aware of the situation he’s been caught in, as if only now he realises that he’s dealing with someone who isn’t practically immune to his temper tantrums and irrational outbursts, someone who isn’t _England,_ and England can’t help but smirk like a tosser at the small victory he’d won over the Kraut, even though that oaf probably didn’t even realise they were playing.

 “I guess we’ll see you back at the conference room then?” He says happily, and he knows it is needlessly cruel, nevertheless is delighted to see Germany squirming under his triumphant gaze.

 “Yes, I suppose so.” He says, squaring his back as his icy eyes harden and his voice loses a considerable part of its already limited warmth. “The meeting restarts in ten.”  

“Save me a seat?” France calls after him in tones of molten honey, but even England knows it is in vain, and he derives great satisfaction from the thought that they’ll have to talk about this later, and that Germany will be the one that’s jealous, for once.

France lets a string of ugly curses slip from his lips as he dunks the cigarette into the broth that’s left inside his cup before reaching for another and England’s can’t help but chuckle at how ferociously he drags at it, apparently dead set on setting his insides ablaze.

“The sorrows of young love, am I right?” He sing-songs, relishing in the beautiful sneer that graces France’s face.

“Like _you_ would know anything about love. The only thing you’re good at is driving people away.”  He says scathingly, and England almost physically flinches at the jab, because _of course_ he is painfully aware of the fact that his way of expressing feelings is far from conventional, and usual causes for more harm than good, but that does not mean they are not _there_ -

“Well you’re still here, aren’t you darling?” He snarls through gritted teeth, and is surprised to be met with only a sigh and the sad flutter of dark blonde lashes against France’s cheeks instead of a scorching retribution, and he swears that he sees the glitter of a tear on a sharp cheekbone, but muses that that's probably just his hopeful imagination toying with him.

“Oi, France?” He says after a brief second of hesitation, studying the tumble of curls of darkened honey over France’s ears and cheeks and into the nape of his neck as he leans over to flick his cigarette, sending ashes swirling down onto the streets below.

“They’re not shutting down the Chunnel entirely, you know..when I leave.” He knows it’s pathetic, but he’s always suffered from a heart so big that it often gets stuck in his throat, a heart that-in the spirit of its owner- stubbornly refuses to let itself be put into words, especially not into _I love you’s,_ instead choosing to hide in silent tears and subtle pleas.

His greedy fingers can’t help but find their way to the soft skin of France’s forearm, and he finds encouragement in the way France doesn’t flinch away when he clumsily attempts to stroke at it.

"You might have to bring a passport along but..one can still hop onto the Eurostar if.. _you know_.. there ever was a need to visit."

And for a fraction of a second France looks so mournful that England has to do everything in his might to fight the urge to take him into his arms and gently cradle that golden-locked head of his, perhaps softly croon _I will miss you too_ into the crook of his neck, but France quickly composes himself, raising his chin to take on England while armed with an unimpressed visage.

" _Oui_ , I know. I imagine it must be a joy to the tourists.” 

And England tries his best to not succumb to the horrid sensation of his heart shrivelling up and in on itself as France dismissively presses what remains of the cigarette into his hand in a fleeting brush of fingers, probably planning on finding Germany to try and lure him back into his arms with beautiful words and tender kisses.

"Yeah, right, the _tourists_." England says sourly as France departs without as much as a second glance and he’s left in deafening silence staring at the smouldering ashes in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Brexit, a portmanteau of "British exit", is the impending withdrawal of the United Kingdom (UK) from the European Union (EU). It follows the referendum of 23 June 2016 when 51.9 per cent of those who voted supported withdrawal. (Wikipedia)


End file.
